bad when the north clearin' is ready, and I believe Kirsty's got a fancy for me."
"You'd better be mindin' your own business indeed, Callum Fiach!" cried Weaver Jimmie, with a sudden fierceness that contrasted strangely with his habitual diffidence. "She will be a smarter woman than you'll be ever gettin' with your feckless ways, indeed!"
"Well, I'm afraid there isn't much chance that you'll be gettin' her either," said Callum very seriously. "Man, she would be givin' you a fine black eye the last time you asked her."
Scotty turned away impatiently. The boys always seemed to get a great deal of fun out of Weaver Jimmie's tempestuous love-affair, but he found it very uninteresting. He slipped under the table, clambered upon the bench beside Hamish, and stuck his curly head between the book and the young man's face; for he had long ago discovered this to be the only effectual means of bringing Hamish back to actualities. Such a proceeding would not have been safe with Callum or Rory, but Hamish was always patient. "What ye readin', Hamish?" he inquired coaxingly.
"Jist a book," said Hamish dreamily. "Be careful of it now. It belongs to the Captain!"
"Captain Herbert? The Englishman Grandaddy hates?"
"Yes; whisht, will ye? I didn't get it from him, though. Kirsty John's mother had it, and lent it to me."
"Was you ever at the Captain's place?"
"Yes, once."
"Is it fearful grand?"
"Yes, I suppose so. But I would jist be at the back door. Take care, now, and let me read!"
"The back door!" Scotty's eyes ranged wonderingly round the walls. With the exception of the trap-door leading to the loft the house had but one opening. "Eh, the Captain's folks must be awful grand, Hamish, to be having two doors to their house."
Hamish laughed. "There's grander things than that there; there's carpets on the floor, an' a piano to play on, an' a whole roomful o' books! Losh!" he exclaimed, "I'd like to get my hands on them jist for a day!"
"How did Kirsty John's mother get this one?"
"The lady that lives there lent it to her. Kirsty's mother used to work for them. Go on away now, and let me read!" for the boy was running his fingers through the pages. "There's no pictures; go and play with Bruce."
But Scotty had turned to the fly-leaf and had discovered some writing. "What's that, Hamish?"
Hamish read the inscription, which was written in a round boyish scrawl, "Isabel Douglas Herbert, from her loving cousin, Harold."
"Who're they?"
"The boy's the Captain's son, and the little girl is his niece. I saw her once at Kirsty's. She's a pretty, wee thing."
"Huh!" Scotty was disdainful. "I don't like girls. They will jist be cry-babies. Is the boy as big as me?"
"He's a little bigger, I guess. He goes to school away in Toronto."
"Bet I could fight him. Is Toronto away over in the old country?"
"No, it's in Canada. Be quiet. I want to read."
"Oh! Is Canady very far away?"
"No, it's right here; this is Canada."
"Oh! An' will the school-house be in Canady too?"
"Yes."
"An' the Captain's house?"
"Imph-n-n."
"Oh! An' all, Oro, an' Lake Simcoe? What will you be laughing at?"
"Wait till old McAllister learns you some geography. You'll hear something about Canada that'll surprise you, whatever."
"It won't be as big as the old country, though, will it?" But Hamish did not answer. He was far away with David Copperfield once more. The boy raised the fly-leaf and took another peep at the name. He sat very quiet for a few moment's and then he crept closer to his uncle, a red flush creeping up under the tan of his cheeks, his black eyes shining.
"Hamish!" he whispered, "Hamish, will that be an—English name?"
"Eh? What name?" Hamish awoke reluctantly to the troublesome realities. "I'll not know."
"Aw, tell me, Hamish!"
"My, but you will be a bother! Yes, Herbert will be an English name, but Isabel Douglas is Scotch, an' a fine Hielan' name, too. But what in the world would you be wanting to know for?"
Scotty hesitated. He hung his black, curly head, and swung his feet in embarrassment; but finally he looked up desperately.
"Do you know what made Danny Murphy say I was an Englishman?" he whispered.
Hamish stifled a laugh. "It would likely jist be his natural Irish villainy," he suggested solemnly.
But Scotty shook his head at even such a natural explanation. "No, it would not be that, it would be—because—the master said it, Hamish!"
"The master?" Hamish's look of amusement changed to one of deep interest. "Why? What would he be saying?"
The boy glanced around the room apprehensively, but the rest of the family were still absorbed in Weaver Jimmie. "When we would be coming into the school," he whispered hurriedly, "the master would be calling all the new ones to the front. An' he says to me, 'What's your name, child?' An I says, 'It's Scotty,—Scotty MacDonald.' An' he says, 'Hut tut, another MacDonald! Yon's no name. Whose bairn are ye?' An' I told him I belonged to Grandaddy an' the boys; an' he says,—an' he says, 'Oh tuts, I know you now. You're Big Malcolm's English grandson!' He would be saying that, Hamish! An' he wrote a name for me; see!" He had been growing more and more excited as the recital proceeded, and at this point he jerked from his bosom a torn and battered primer that had done duty in the few days that Hamish had attended school. Under the scrawling marks that stood for Hamish's name was written in a fine scholarly flourish, "Ralph Everett Stanwell."
"Humph!" Hamish gazed at the book, and a look of sadness crept into his kind, brown eyes. He glanced across the room at his father. Weaver Jimmie had just departed, and Callum was leaning over the back of his chair laughing immoderately, while Rory was out in the middle of the floor executing a lively step-dance accompanied by voice and fiddle to the words, "Ha! Ha! the wooin' o't!"
"Look here, father," called Hamish, "do you see what the schoolmaster would be writing in Scotty's book?"
Big Malcolm took the primer, adjusted his spectacles, and moved the little book up and down before the candle to get the proper focus. "Ralph Everett Stanwell," he read slowly. "What kind o' a name would that be, whatever!" he cried, with a twinkle in his eye.
"It's got a fearsome kind of a sough to it," said Callum apprehensively.
"It will be an English name!" cried Scotty fiercely, "an' Peter Lauchie would be saying it is jist no name at all!"
The young men burst into laughter, which served only to increase their nephew's wrath. He sprang out upon the floor, his black eyes blazing, and stamped his small
